Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Hebrews 12
18 You have not come to a mountain that can be touched and that is burning with fire; to darkness, gloom and storm; 19 to a trumpet blast or to such a voice speaking words that those who heard it begged that no further word be spoken to them, 20 because they could not bear what was commanded: “If even an animal touches the mountain, it must be stoned to death.”[a] 21 The sight was so terrifying that Moses said, “I am trembling with fear.”[b]
22 But you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly, 23 to the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven. You have come to God, the Judge of all, to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, 24 to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.
25 See to it that you do not refuse him who speaks. If they did not escape when they refused him who warned them on earth, how much less will we, if we turn away from him who warns us from heaven? 26 At that time his voice shook the earth, but now he has promised, “Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.”[c] 27 The words “once more” indicate the removing of what can be shaken—that is, created things—so that what cannot be shaken may remain.
28 Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, 29 for our “God is a consuming fire.”[d]
Nothing bolsters a good argument like a little Latin.
And nothing will impress quite like a little rhetorical analysis, breaking down your opponent’s words and saying “I see what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work on me.”
Take argumentum ad captandum for example, using words to capture the naive with an appeal to emotions rather than reason. If someone is suggesting they’re going to build a multi-billion dollar wall and get someone else to pay for it, you are hearing an ad captandum argument.
Or the well-worm argumentum ad populum, the appeal to the people. This lame argument suggests that simply because many people believe something, it must be true. When someone tweets “many people are saying” without specifying which people or exactly how many, they are making an ad populum argument.
Or the argumentum ad crumenam, Latin for the ‘argument of the purse,’ where people insist that someone is more clever or more profound simply because they are rich. No example is coming to mind just now.
And then there is the argumentum ad novitatem, the appeal to novelty. In this argument, if it’s new or novel, it must be better. If someone suggests banning an entire religious group from entering his country, and people yum up the idea because it’s new (though certainly illegal), they are falling for an ad novitatem argument.
Finally, there is the argumentum a fortiori, taking an existing belief and using it to strengthen a weaker point. An example would be a candidate that says something like “the last eight years have been a disaster, imagine what another four would be like.” This idea of a third term for Obama is an a fortiori argument, building on a firmly held belief to strengthen another idea.
So now you’re ready to answer all arguments, to pepper your Facebook replies with pretentious Latin phrases, and defeat even the most ardent supporters of a candidate I’d rather not name. And having had this tiny primer on rhetoric, you’re also ready to tackle the 12th chapter of Hebrews.
I don’t usually use Bible commentaries when preparing for Sunday, preferring to “trust the force” as Obi Wan might say, and let the passage speak for itself. When this fails, of course, I do have a quiver of resources, in this case an insightful study on Hebrews by Prof. Beverly Gaventa.
As she attempts to explain what seems rather opaque at first glance, she makes this observation: “Consistent with the style of argumentation throughout Hebrews, [this] passage makes use of an a fortiori argument. What was true of an earlier generation will be even more true of this last generation.” So how does this work?
Well, the passage begins with a reference that only Cecil B. DeMille would truly appreciate:
18 You have not come to a mountain that can be touched and that is burning with fire; to darkness, gloom and storm; 19 to a trumpet blast or to such a voice speaking words that those who heard it begged that no further word be spoken...the sight was so terrifying that Moses said, “I am trembling with fear.”
This is the weirdly glowing Charlton Heston, with the wild hair and the hipster beard. So this is the first image. The the author of Hebrews then shifts gears, taking us to the base of another mountain:
22 But you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly, 23 to the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven.
God is there, the judge and Most High, and Jesus is there, mediator of a new covenant, with a new message—a message you ought not ignore. So here comes the a fortiori argument: ‘If the Israelites ignored God’s words given on earth, how much more attentive will the church be to words spoke from heaven?’
Mostly, it’s a challenge to listen, a challenge to pay attention to the God in the absence of fires and darkness and gloom and a storm. It’s a challenge to acknowledge God’s presence through assemblies and songs—with nothing as dramatic as believers experienced long ago. ‘If the Israelites ignored God’s words given on earth, how much more attentive will the church be to words spoke from heaven?’
And the challenges only continue. We in the church are continually confronted by the same rhetorical arguments alive in the public arena. Ask your neighbour, or read your denominational magazine, or read the Star and you will hear these arguments.
There is an appeal to people to see the church only in terms of decline. This ad populum argument uses the “many people are saying” approach to suggest that we face certain death, rather than look at other cultures and countries and the overall state of the Christian church. Yes, our particular version of the church is struggling, but we’re a small part of the overall picture.
And then there is the argument of the purse, that churches with good cash flow are somehow more successful, and those that struggle must be doing something wrong. I think it’s the opposite, with more monies dedicated to outreach and community renewal being the real indicator of ‘success.’
And then there is the appeal to novelty, something that afflicts us in the United Church, and may cause our Presbyterian friends to sit back and feel all smug. Thirty years of working in the wider-church, and I can tell you that we’re endlessly distracted by whatever shiny object rolls by, especially if someone calls it restructuring. Even local churches can have this problem, distracted by the latest guru or trend that comes along.
Instead, we should take the wisdom of Hebrews, and the a fortiori argument the author is famous for, and apply it to our life together:
If churches can begin and grow in some of the smallest and most unsightly storefronts along our main streets, how much more can we do with our large churches that actually look like churches?
If people can spread the Word of God in countries like North Korea where it is illegal to have a Bible, how much more effective will we be with stacks of Bibles lying around?
If Christians can tend to each other in countries like Syria and South Sudan, how much more will we be able to do amid the peace and prosperity we enjoy?
If God is still speaking through the words we speak and the prayers we share, how much more do we have to learn from this talkative God?
And if Jesus is still among us in the meals we share, and the people we help, and the friends we meet, then how much more will we be able to accomplish in his name?
The answer is more, with how much more falling to us. May God continue to make the best arguments, so compelling we can’t turn away, now and always. Amen.
Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Hebrews 11 and 12
29 By faith the people passed through the Red Sea as on dry land; but when the Egyptians tried to do so, they were drowned.
30 By faith the walls of Jericho fell, after the army had marched around them for seven days.
31 By faith the prostitute Rahab, because she welcomed the spies, was not killed with those who were disobedient.
32 And what more shall I say? I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson and Jephthah, about David and Samuel and the prophets, 33 who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised; who shut the mouths of lions, 34 quenched the fury of the flames, and escaped the edge of the sword; whose weakness was turned to strength; and who became powerful in battle and routed foreign armies.
39 These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised, 40 since God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.
12 Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, 2 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.
I’m told Montreal hosted the ‘76 Olympics.
And just as you do the mental math, I’m old enough that I should remember. It’s just that during the weeks I should have been glued to that tiny black and white in the corner of the living room my parents decided to go on vacation—a driving vacation—to British Columbia.
The week we left was the week my mother decided to quit smoking. I don’t think I need to say more about that particular trauma. Good to quit, bad to spend three weeks in a truck with the quitter.
My father got it in his head to travel Highway 11 through northern Ontario, a route that has, it seems, fewer hills. And Carmen wonders about my irrational fear of wilderness, bears and other large creatures.
My brother loves trains—still does. As navigator, he directed us through every rail yard between North Bay and Vancouver. Think about that.
So when people mention the Montreal Olympics, I don’t think Greg Joy and the High Jump, or Nadia Comaneci’s perfect ten, or even a pregnant cartoon of Mayor Jean Drapeau—I think of rail yards, a nation of rail yards.
And Montreal, of course, was the last games with nearly full participation until the 1988 games in Seoul, another trauma we need not mention for a second, or 9.79 seconds. Over the next couple of games we recaptured our dignity, especially in rowing, and entered this century more confident but acutely aware that we are a winter games people—until a certain 16 year-old arrived in Rio.
Penny Oleksiak—dubbed “Lucky Penny” by the BBC—seemed to come out of nowhere to become our youngest olympic champion and the first to win four medals at the same summer games. Wonderfully, her gold was a tie with Simone Manuel, the first African-American woman to win a gold in swimming for the U.S.
I know you’re politely listening to me, but some of you are ready to get back to today’s coverage. Women’s basketball (Canada v. Spain) is at 4.45, with the Men’s 100m final is at 9.25.
“Let us run with perseverance,” the author of Hebrews wrote, “the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.” Having reviewed our favourite summer olympic sports, and why faith is like a race, it might be time to look at running in antiquity.
The ancient Olympic games, begun in 776 BC, first featured only running. Runners ran at standard length, called a stadion (or stade), a distance of about 200 metres. Soon a two stade race was added, followed by a distance race around 5K. There was also something called the hoplite race, a race in full armour, adding about 60 lbs. to the effort. You may be surprized to learn there was no marathon, something that seems to have been dreamed up for the rebirth of the Olympics in 1896.
Olympic champions were famous in the Greek city-states with statues erected and wealth flowing to the victor’s home town, sometimes in gold, sometimes in something useful like olive oil. And just to add a fun fact you can share with your friends, ancient olympic runner Leonides of Rhodes (b. 188 BC) maintained a record of twelve individual olympic championships for over 2,000 years, only to be broken this past week by Michael Phelps.[1]
So the author of Hebrews knew about running. The ancient games were held every four years for over a thousand years, and the idea of running the race with perseverance would have resonated with his audience. Like modern viewers, the ancients marveled at the determination and stamina required to compete.
And they knew about trouble. Reading through the Acts of the Apostles, we know that the church in Jerusalem was persecuted, beginning with Saul (later Paul) himself. At this early stage most believers were Jewish followers of Christ, their very identity a source of conflict.
So drawing on this background, and using examples of heroic faith, the author of Hebrews reviews what others have endured. As stated, it’s rated M for Mature:
36 Some faced jeers and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. 37 They were put to death by stoning;[b] they were sawed in two; they were killed by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated— 38 the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, living in caves and in holes in the ground.
In other words, if Myriam, Joshua, Rahab, or Gideon, Barak, and Samson could endure, then you can too. And then the author goes a step further, tying ancient sacrifice to behaviour today:
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles.
In other other words, don’t falter in the faith or give yourself to sin when so many are behind you cheering you on. The cloud of witnesses approach works in two ways: first, don’t let them down, since they did so much to safeguard the faith, and secondly, accept the encouragement that while unseen, is very real. Run with perseverance the race marked out for us.
And then there is another commendation, one that at first seems a little unclear. The author of Hebrews has reviewed this great sweep of faithfulness, named names and cited examples, yet adds this: 39 “These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised.”
It would be easy to engage in a little supersessionist thought here, suggesting that only Jesus completes the arc of faithfulness. Yet Paul and others argue that these spiritual giants are righteous on their own, before Christ, with Paul calling Abraham “the father of all who believe.” These faithful ones are credited by righteousness alone, and therefore the meaning of the words “none of them received what had been promised” is something else.
And to understand this delayed promise, I think we need to go back to sport. A life of faith, well led, is less an individual sport and more a team sport. We ponder the cloud of witnesses that surround us, and the saints that astound us, and we know they worked together. We know that just as it “takes a village to raise a child” it takes a congregation to raise a Christian. Faith does not appear spontaneously, it is nurtured over years with other faithful people.
And I can go further too. In addition to being a team sport, faith is like a relay, where each generation passes the torch to each new generation and faith continues. Some say Christianity is always one generation away from disappearing, and while a tad overly-dramatic, there is a kernel of truth in these words. We are the guardians of something precious, and it falls to us to pass the torch on to others. This why so many volunteers give so many hours to the church school—because others gave time and the gift of a faith to them.
The author of Hebrews said “God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.” The giants of faith are made perfect when we advance God’s realm, when we pass the torch, and when we “run with perseverance the race marked out for us,” always “fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. Amen.
[1]https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2016/aug/11/michael-phelps-200m-individual-medley-gold-rio-2016-swimming
Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 12
32 “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. 33 Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will never fail, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. 34 For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
35 “Be dressed ready for service and keep your lamps burning, 36 like servants waiting for their master to return from a wedding banquet, so that when he comes and knocks they can immediately open the door for him. 37 It will be good for those servants whose master finds them watching when he comes. Truly I tell you, he will dress himself to serve, will have them recline at the table and will come and wait on them. 38 It will be good for those servants whose master finds them ready, even if he comes in the middle of the night or toward daybreak. 39 But understand this: If the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. 40 You also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”
For those who feel the holidays are too short, I suggest time-travel.
We seem to live with the assumption of progress: that whatever is bad today was worse in the past. But if we look at a simple measure like days off, people in the past were living in a kind of paradise.
If you were a fourteenth century farm hand, toiling in the fields from dawn to dusk, you might be an object of pity until you count the non-working days: Sundays, vacation periods such as Christmas and Easter, various saints’ days, and ales—days of celebration that meant the host, either the church or the lord would provide the ale. All together, a third of the year was holiday.[1]
And that describes the seemingly overworked English. In France, they took things to the next level: 52 Sundays, 90 rest days and 38 additional holidays—nearly six months off each year. Vive la France!
Now, you might think that with so many holidays to choose from, our hypothetical farm hand would be unable to pick a favourite. How would you choose? One that stands out, and has for centuries, is the Twelfth Night, January 5th—the day that marks the end of the Christmas season.
On Twelfth Night you could look forward to a sumptuous meal, including tasty twelfth-cake, washed down with wassail (mulled cider). If you were really lucky, your piece of twelfth-cake might have a bean in it, meaning that you were appointed the Lord of Misrule for the evening.
And this is when things got interesting. As Lord of Misrule, you assumed the role of the Lord of the Manor for the evening, and the actual lord would serve you. You could command others as the lord would, and by tradition they would obey. The same tradition happened in the royal court, and even among churchmen, with the appointment of a boy bishop for the Twelfth Night celebrations.
And like other Christian festivals, this too was stolen from the Romans. They celebrated Saturnalia in late December, a week-long celebration that ended with Sol Invictus, the day of the unconquered sun. And at the heart of the celebration was a reversal of roles: masters served slaves at table, or sometimes ate together, and slaves were free to speak their minds—while remembering that one day the normal order would resume.
Call it a brief social revolution, where people got taste of how the other half (or the one percent) lived. In some ways it must have acted as a bit of the relief valve, or at the very least a reminder that the existing order belongs to the present time, and not the time to come.
And this brings us to Luke 12. At this point in the story, Jesus has attracted a vast crowd to him. He speaks first to this disciples and warms them to be on their guard: against hypocrites, then the greedy (last week’s lesson) and finally the unprepared. But before he attends to the unprepared, he as a final word about wealth:
32 “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. 33 Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will never fail, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. 34 For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
This has nothing to do with my sermon, I just love the thought. After this last look at treasure, he shares not-quite-a-parable about watchfulness. The words are familiar—they appear throughout the gospels—but there is something else. Listen again:
Be dressed and ready, keep your lamps burning for the master’s return. “It will be good for those servants whose master finds them watching when he comes. Truly I tell you, he will dress himself to serve, will have them recline at the table and will come and wait on them.
What’s this? Saturnalia in Luke? [The master] will dress himself to serve, will have them recline at the table and will come and wait on them? Where did that come from? And just as quickly as this little aside appears, it disappears. “It will be good,” he says, “for those servants whose master finds them ready, even if he comes in the middle of the night.”
Last week I mentioned the over-zealous scribe, tacking on some interpretation or explanation to tie off a parable. This week we meet the anxious scribe, most likely St. Luke himself, with a snippet of speech that belongs somewhere, and gets inserted here.
Think of the gospels as an assemblage of stories and sayings, collected throughout Jesus all-too-brief time on earth and repackaged in four gospels. These words lived in memory and mutual sharing, only to be set down in the years that followed the cross. Luke has a verse about reversing the role of master and servant, and inserts it here. Except it doesn’t really fit. This is a passage about watchfulness, not reversals.
If Luke had the earliest version of Word Perfect, or Microsoft Word, he might have cut this and pasted it in a better spot, namely chapter 22. There we find Luke’s late version of ‘who is the greatest’ and Jesus’ response: “the greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves. 27 For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one who is at the table? But I am among you as one that serves.”
This verse may be familiar to you if you know our national men’s group, AOTS. They take their name from 22.27: “But I am among you as one that serves.”
In Luke 22, we learn that Jesus is the master that serves, that sponsors the great reversals where the least and the last become the greatest and the first of all. Jesus will dress as one who serves, allow others to recline at table, and will come to wait on them and meet their needs. He will humble himself, and set an example for his disciples to follow. Later, as Philippians notes, he will humble himself and “become obedient to death—even death on a cross.”
So how do we apply this to today? What message can we draw beyond the eternal command to love and serve others? I know you’ve been thinking about a certain billionaire, so we may as well talk about him.
In a perverted version of Twelfth Night or Saturnalia, a troublesome leader is promising to reverse the social order by the simple act of voting for him. He as tapped into all the anger and resentment that comes when the people are ignored or belittled by their so-called betters and the gap between them grows to the point that there is little hope for the future.
He is promising to somehow return power to those left behind without being troubled by details, reason or anything that a normal politician might promise. Instead, he provokes more anger, and invents enemies—and all the while continues to profit from the existing order he condemns.
The sad part of the story is that the anger and the resentment are largely justified, and it is equally sad that the invitation to revenge and mayhem has been sold to them in such a bewitching way. His opponent will have to work twice as hard to present an alternate vision: to listen to the people who have been left behind, to offer concrete solutions, and to offer to truly serve them.
There are many examples of servant leadership, beginning in scripture and demonstrated in the lives of saints and leaders through time. We pray for our friends south of the border, that they may come through this experience with a greater commitment to each other and the promise of peace. Amen.
[1] The Overworked American: The Unexpected Decline of Leisure, by Juliet B. Schor
